Scarred
by BabyCaramel
Summary: Rentfic, in which Roger contemplates. Okay, I don't know how to summarize, so just read. *Not* slash (surprise, surprise). Please review!


This started as something slightly different, but I didn't like where it was going so I rewrote it about a month or two ago and basically got this. I've added a bit to the end, and I think I'm a little bit happier with this rewrite. But let me know what you guys think. Oh, and all you non-slash-fans: be joyous. This is a slash-free fic. Amazing, eh? Bet you thought I didn't have it in me. Anyway, read and review, please. I thrive on reviews. Seriously, they make my day. Thanks muchly. :-)

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Jonathan Larson, who is not me. The title is a word, but it is also the title of a song by Joshua Kobak, who again is not me.

Scarred

By Alison H.

Everyone always thought it would be Mark. He's the lonely one, the vulnerable one, the one with the problems, the one who's fucked up mentally. Not Roger. Roger is strong, he's in love and carefree and happy. He's been through shit, but it's made him a tougher, better man.

It's amazing how blind people can be.

Nobody's ever suspected a thing. Not even Mimi, who must have seen the scars nearly every night but I guess it just never occurred to her that Roger, perfect, beautiful, in-control Roger, would be depressed.

Why can't they see it? I'm not perfect. I'm not beautiful. I'm certainly not strong and in control. I have AIDS, I'm a recovered drug addict, for Christ's sake -- I have more problems than I can handle.

I think Mark may have noticed. I'm too reckless. Sometimes I roll my shirt sleeves up in the summer heat, forgetting why I'm wearing that long-sleeved shirt around him in the first place. I saw him eye my wrist curiously once, but I moved and hid my arm from view before he could ask about it.

Then again, if he suspected anything, he'd have cleared the loft of every sharp object in existence by now. He'd have said something to Mimi, and she would have brought up the subject with me, or stayed with me for fear that I'd kill myself if we broke up.

Maybe he just doesn't care.

No, that's stupid. Of course Mark cares. He's my best friend, and he loves me. After all the shit I've pulled, he wouldn't still be around if he didn't.

In a way, I almost wish he would find out. I need him to just put his arms around me and promise that everything's going to be okay. Even though it's not. Even though, in a week or a month or a year, I'll be dead. I just need to hear that he won't ever leave me. I need to hear that he loves me. Sometimes I forget.

But if he knew... well, I'm afraid, I guess. I'm afraid that he won't understand. That he'll be angry, or he'll blame himself, or he'll kick me out of the loft like he threatened to do if I ever used drugs again. I know he was just angry when he said that, and I know this isn't the same thing as shooting up, but still, I don't want to risk it. I can't survive without him.

I need him. I always have, I think.

Compared to him, I'm so weak. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him cry. Me? I sobbed like a baby when Mimi told me it was over between us. Not in front of her, of course, but I escaped to my room and cried until my throat was raw and my eyes felt like fire. Some tough, macho guy I am.

When Mark gets upset, he throws himself into his work. A few days later he emerges with a new film, each more touching, more perfect than the last, and he's healed. I try to write songs, try to turn all these emotions into something inspiring and beautiful. But the notes sound sharp or flat, the words don't fit, and there's never any rhythm or rhyme. I can't make music out of anything I feel inside -- hell, I can't even make sense out of it.

That's why I cut. I press the smooth, cool metal blade into my skin and suddenly there's no need for sense. There's no need for anything except the blood that surges upward to fill the wound, overflowing and spilling down my arm. It calms me, somehow. Like heroin. Once an addict, always an addict, they say. Maybe they're right.

When I wake up, I always regret it. I wash my arm, and I curse myself for being such an idiot, and I swear that was the last time. But it isn't. I never stop. I can't.

I'm weak. No amount of long sleeves or clashing chords or attempts to isolate myself can change that. I'm too weak to resist the allure of cutting. Too weak to do anything except press deeper, staring at the waves of warm, rich redness and hoping vainly that along with blood I'll shed all my insecurities and imperfections.

Once, I accused Mark of being unable to face his own failure. I hated him for it, but that was before. I still hate it, but due more to jealousy, now, than contempt. Why should he be allowed to hide from his failure, when I see mine everywhere I look? Why can't I learn the fine art of detachment that he's mastered? Why am I forced to feel everything, every emotion, magnified a thousand times?

Really, it's amazing that none of my friends have figured it out, especially when it's so painfully obvious. I'm a wreck. I always have been, and I don't think I'm ever going to change. I've tried before, but that usually lasts about as long as it takes to pull the razor blade out of its hiding spot underneath my mattress.

Sometimes I wish I could be as blind as my friends are.


End file.
